


Puppywork

by owueiu



Category: Original Work, Poets of the Fall
Genre: Bad Poetry, Dark, Depression, Digital Art, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Personal Growth, Poetic, Poetry, References to Depression, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owueiu/pseuds/owueiu
Summary: Multiple poemsI shall keep it 👉🏾✨ inconspicuous ✨
Comments: 2
Collections: Poetry, Poetry Emotion (poetry-in-motion)





	Puppywork

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you for somehow, for some reason, choosing to read this...I hope you enjoy :]  
> 👉🏾👈🏾
> 
> (Ps. This will mostly just be a series of things my brain vomits so it won't be all that well thought out.)

A boy around 7 or 8 years old had a wonderful imagination. Sparkling with stars and planet! Candy and glitter! Dinosaurs and teddy bears! At least he thought he did. Have an imagination greater than all the adults in the world combined since it was clear to see how grey they could be. No way his point would be proven wrong. And he thought that and thought that till week after week, night over day, sun setting east he would wake up drenched over the same dream. A murky sea of grey would swallow his fragile soul into the depths of the abiss in which he found thousands upon thousands of lost journals and cigarettes. Millions upon billions of dead white rabbits staring at him, asking him to let them go and he tried. He tried for so long yet they wouldn't shut their eyes and he cried, tears of gold. Coughed up red and woke up in a sweat. He tried his best to change the pace, change the rate of his decisions, or completely change yet nothing worked. New traumas were formed and there was no one who could help. As he would one day grow into adulthood and no one will care for him there as they do now. And even now barely then so he supposes some things don't change. But hopefully, when the rain dies down, the sparkles and space shuttles, the clouds and rainbows made from chocolate-coated pretzels, and love will come back and help him out. To his parents, he called out "Ma!" "Mama!" yet no one came to help him, no one called, as his screams turned to echos hitting a warped wall. His chest compressed his words into imaginative explosions and his tears sung a sad note. He finally truly awoke.


End file.
